


Unfettered

by bea_meupscotty



Series: Ever and Ever Sight [2]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Age Difference, F/M, First Time, Older Man/Younger Woman
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-07
Updated: 2019-02-17
Packaged: 2019-10-23 21:14:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 19,136
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17691167
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bea_meupscotty/pseuds/bea_meupscotty
Summary: Hermione goes to Lucius Malfoy for another favor.***Follows on from Rust and Stardust.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So, uh, this was supposed to be a one-shot, and then was suddenly 10,000 words, so it'll be a two-chapter one shot. Like an HBO miniseries, if you will.
> 
> Note that Hermione is technically of age here, so I haven't used an underage tag, but I've also tried to be mindful of the age difference and keep the power imbalance somewhat leveled out here. Also, this is by far the filthiest thing I've ever written so... have fun with it!

Hermione sat on the front stoop of her now-empty childhood home, frowning down at the letter in her hand. It was creased crisply, almost militarily, and as she looked at it she realized she was absentmindedly running her fingers along the creases yet again, sharpening them, tightening them. She bit her lip, remembering.

***

She was fifteen and kissing Viktor Krum in the rose gardens during the Yule Ball, but his hands were clumsy and he pressed slightly too hard, and used his tongue too aggressively, and he didn’t seem to enjoy it at all when she ran her nails along his scalp, but it didn’t matter anyway because his hair was much too short.

She was fifteen and watching in horror as Harry stumbled out of the maze, dragging Cedric’s body and as soon as she saw it she remembered a husky voice, almost broken, the scent of roses and cedar and the taste of mulled wine as he told her that there was something coming, dark times, and she knew that this was the Something. Later, talking to Harry and learning that the Dark Lord was back, she’d thought of silver eyes and silver hair in the moonlight. When Harry told her and Ron that Lucius Malfoy was among the named Death Eaters, she’d said nothing but thought of her hand on his left forearm and the gentle thank you kiss she’d pressed to soft lips. A few weeks later, she’d been running errands with her mother before she had to leave for Grimmauld Place and suddenly, for no discernible reason at all, had felt tears running down her cheeks as she examined the salad dressings.

She was sixteen and Harry had finally agreed to teach the other students defensive magic, after that _toad_ of a woman had kept them writing essays. The first time she’d protested about the inefficacy of no practical component to learning as a pedagogical strategy, she’d thought of a skeptical face and flustered hissing and the feel of cashmere under her hands. Sitting in the Common Room late at night, planning the first meeting, she’d thought back to that same angry conversation, a murmured magical promise, heard that stupidly aristocratic voice challenging her at every turn - _so what’s to stop me from going straight to Umbridge after I get all this instruction, hm_? - and decided to think like a Slytherin. 

She was sixteen but so much older than sixteen and she was standing in the Department of Mysteries with her wand drawn on a crowd of Death Eaters and she’d just lured a woman to what was likely her death, but he still smelled like cedar and smoke and she hated him just a little bit more for it, for making her wonder why he’d warned her, why he’d helped her, for making her hesitate and wonder just how much he wanted to be caught up in this nightmare.

She was almost seventeen, sitting in Grimmauld Place and staring at the picture of a once-familiar man with eyes that were now the dull grey of a scuffed Sickle, limp blonde hair, and face sunken in shadows and hollows, thinking of the crushing darkness of the Dementors she’d felt her third year, the cold leeching at her very soul, and was torn between regretting horribly and being unspeakably grateful that she hadn’t ever asked Sirius what it was like to be in Azkaban.

She was seventeen and hadn’t thought about that gaunt face in ages, when she leaned down to sniff at her perfectly pink batch of Amortentia, excited as she noted the smells - _freshly-mown grass, new parchment, and_ \- her mind stopping her brain just in time as she smelled the unmistakeable boyscent of Ron’s hair, and, beneath that, just the faintest whisper of cedar, roses and mulled wine.

***

A few days later, she was sitting again, this time on the warm, dew-wet earth of an empty field a few kilometers past the last stop on the northern end of the Piccadilly line of the Tube. She’d spent the long walk wondering if she had gone utterly round the bend, but it was too late to change things if she had. She checked her watch, swearing under her breath, before she stood up, wiping the palms of her hands on her jeans. Only a few moments now, if everything went as she expected, and she fought the urge to fidget, fingers tapping out an erratic rhythm against her thigh--

and then she heard the sound of twigs snapping at the edge of the field, a curse and a muffled thump, and then a tall man in dark robes emerged from the brush, silvery-blonde hair slowly coming into focus in the rising early morning sun. She took in a deep breath, taking a few steps forward to meet him. “You came,” she said slowly, almost a question. 

He returned her greeting with a subtle sneer. “And miss out on learning whatever favor Potter’s Mudblood bitch has come to beg of me, and what she’s offering in return? I wouldn’t dream of it.” 

She didn’t even wince at the slur--it had been expected, of course--just gave him a tight smile, and, taking the final step to close the distance between them, murmured “Good”, just before she reached out and grasped his arm tightly, eyes screwing shut as she turned in on herself, mind utterly focused on her destination even as she heard his startled curse. The first jump was the easiest, but they’d barely landed on the rocky shore, she could only just smell the crisp salt of the ocean, before she was exhaling heavily, turning again, both hands on his arm now and nails digging in as much for her own concentration as to keep him from moving, then a whoosh of forested undergrowth, the sound of people in the far distance, and she barely took a moment to acknowledge her own fatigue and weakening concentration before they turned again, one last jump, and when they finally spun into existence she let out a heavy groan as she sank to the carpeted floor, eyes flickering across herself and Malfoy to check that she hadn’t splinched either of them.

She felt fine, and Malfoy looked fine too. If he had any injuries, they didn’t seem to be bothering him much, because the look on his face showed no pain, only sheer unbridled rage as looked down at her. She noticed, as if from a distance, that he still looked rather thin and drawn, hair not as lustrous as she remembered it, more like in the photos she’d seen from Azkaban - though he hadn’t been out long, she supposed, and then he was bearing down on her, fury etched in every line of his thin face. 

“You will regret that,” he threatened, reaching out to grab her closest forearm roughly, hauling her half to her feet. _How convenient_ , she thought dimly, tilting her head to see the time on the watch face just above where his long fingers were wrapped around her forearm, before she reached out with her other hand to grab a newspaper off of the coffee table next to where she’d been slumped on the living room floor of her parents’ empty home, and she almost felt bad at the flash of shock and fear she saw across his face when he, too, felt the unmistakeable hook and drag sensation in his navel of the Portkey activating.

***

It felt like he was hurtling through a vast void for ages, long enough that he began to worry that there was a problem in the Portkey and that he would be stuck forever, barreling through time and space with his hand around the Granger girl’s arm for eternity, when he felt the thud of solid ground beneath his feet. He let go of the girl’s arm as if it were burning him, just managing to stumble a few steps away before he turned and vomited. Long-distance Portkey then. He tried to deny the icy tendrils of fear creeping through his veins, that he’d walked into a trap because he was foolish enough to believe in the honor of a bloody Gryffindor Mudblood he’d had the misfortune to be kind to once three years ago and now he would wind up dead, or worse, if the Dark Lord got word of his capture and got his hands on Lucius again, and his family would wind up dead, all because he’d misjudged Hermione bloody Granger in a fit of sentimentality, when he heard the sound of her retching as well. Well, at least they were both somewhat incapacitated.

He opened his eyes, palms pushing against his knees to help him straighten up as he took in his surroundings, hoping to gain some knowledge to even the scales between himself and the Gryffindor, who’d managed to thoroughly tilt the playing field in her favor (a feat he would only grudgingly admit to admiring). The walls and floor were some sort of stone, a smooth, solid slab of it all around, with pillars of the same stone supporting the cavernous space. There were no windows or natural light that he could see, only dim, flickering Muggle lighting dangling from the ceiling every few yards, and the air had the close, heavy feeling of being underground. The air itself was hot, too, much warmer than it had been in Britain, and he found the feeling of his heavy black robes suddenly oppressive, fighting the urge to gulp in air or rip them off of his body. As his eyes swept around, he saw that Granger had finally managed to stop dry heaving, and felt the tingle of a breath-freshening charm she must’ve cast on the two of them. She was leaning against the stone wall behind them. Her hands were still trembling slightly, and the tendrils of her outrageously bushy hair closest to her face were plastered to her forehead with sweat. She looked terrible, but better than to be expected for someone who’d just Apparated the two of them through three jumps and then taken a long-distance Portkey. Why did the dirty brat have to be so bloody good at magic, his brain supplied petulantly, as he watched her take in deep breaths. 

“Where are we?” he finally asked, hoping that his voice was less shaky than it had sounded to him. 

She exhaled slowly again before turning to face him, eyeing him warily. “America. On the western coast.” 

The world suddenly began to spin and the floor tilted beneath him, and he felt for the wall, fighting another rising tide of nausea. He felt the icy grip of fear again but pushed it down and forced a sneer onto his face, hoping it hid the terror. “You know, if you wanted to bring me to a dungeon and torture me, there are plenty in Britain.” 

He watched carefully as her eyes widened in surprise. “Torture? A... You think we’re in a dungeon?” 

He couldn’t help but frown at her response. _That_ was what she wanted to harp on? Whether or not they were in a dungeon? “Call it what you want, but we’re in a large, empty stone chamber that’s clearly underground. In my book, Granger, that’s a dungeon.” 

He watched helplessly as she stared at him, dumbfounded, before she doubled over in peals of girlish laughter that he remembered well from the Yule Ball. Merlin, he was dead, so dead, and he wanted to kill the girl where she stood with his bare hands but he needed to figure out where they were and how to get back to Great Britain before his entire family was killed by the Dark Lord for his failure in getting captured or his apparent desertion. 

“A... A dungeon! Oh, bloody Merlin, I’d forgotten how utterly _stupid_ wizards can be,” she finally gasped out, amusement lacing her voice, and he turned to her with a glower, but she was shaking her head and straightening up. “We’re in a parking garage.” 

“A what,” he asked flatly, lips pressed thinly together.

“You know, a structure where Muggles can park their cars. Surely you must know what cars are, the Ministry has a fleet of them even.” 

He paused, looking at her. “There are no cars here.” 

“Yes, because it’s closed. It’s nearly midnight here, give or take a bit for the long-distance Portkey. It’d be a bloody terrible place to use as a Portkey destination if it were full of Muggles dropping off or picking up their cars, wouldn’t it?” 

He exhaled through clenched teeth at her suddenly pedantic tone, as if _of course_ he should have realized she’d Portkeyed him to a closed parking garage in the middle of the night on another bloody continent. “Well, if not torture, _why_ , pray tell, have you taken me halfway across the world?”

“Precaution,” she said, quickly elaborating at his furious glare, “I couldn’t be certain you wouldn’t try to turn and capture me, with others waiting as soon as you signaled I was actually alone,” --he frowned, realizing that would have been a bloody delightful plan, much preferable to winding up in a parking garage -- “which I why I needed to Apparate us immediately, and the three jumps should’ve been plenty to throw anyone trying to track us off our tracks, but then, even though I’m of age and so shouldn’t have the Trace on me any longer, I don’t trust the Ministry any further than I can throw them, hence the Portkey. Even if the Trace is still on my magic, it shouldn’t extend this far without someone looking for me here.”

He exhaled heavily, head thumping against the wall behind him as he took in her words. She was bloody calculating, he had to give her that. There was no chance they’d be found by anyone unless she wanted them found. “Where did you jump us, when you Apparated?” he asked, stalling for time as he tried to figure out how he’d grown so stupid rotting away in Azkaban. 

“Well, I chose places I knew very well, to make the casting easier on myself,” she began, the clever show-off student as always, “so first was a place on the coast I used to go often with my parents, and not too far from where we were, and then the Bois de Boulogne in Paris, figuring that the international travel would shake off the most dogged pursuers, and then back to my parents’ home. It was the easiest to envision, and I knew I could leave the Portkey there without it being disturbed.” 

He was no closer to figuring out how he’d gotten so idiotic as to get himself caught in a trap laid by a Mudblood, and instead was forced into rising estimation of said Mudblood for her stupidly impressive Apparition. “Well done,” he said, unable to force his flat affect into even his usual sardonic tones. “Well, ask me your favor and make me your offer, and get it over with so we can get back to Britain,” he said, waving a hand limply.

“Oh, er,” she stammered, flushing wildly, and he turned on her, nostrils flaring in annoyance as he took in sudden squirming, “you’ll understand, given the nature of the favor, once I ask of it, of course, but, ah, it would take some time, and it was too dangerous, even Confunded, for two people to book Portkeys out here too close together, so I’d planned on returning tomorrow, ah, tomorrow morning.”

“Tomorrow... surely you mean this morning, in a few hours?” Lucius asked, voice low as he fought to contain the urge to simply strangle the girl and be done with it. 

“Erm, no. More like... eighteen hours?” 

Lucius felt his temper flare. “Eighteen bloody hours?!” He clenched his hands into fists and fought the urge to punch the stone wall behind him. 

“My letter said to make sure you had cover to be gone without suspicion for two days!” 

“I know what your bloody letter said, you bitch, but that doesn’t mean I wanted to be stuck in America with a Mudblood for two days. Merlin’s balls, Mudblood, your arrogance astounds me! What were you going to do if I refused your favor, though maybe I’m giving you too much credit, assuming you thought of a plan at all, I don’t know if it’s worse that you didn’t think of it or that you were just going to leave me here, stuck halfway across the world with no wand and only a teenage girl to depend on -- _fuck!_ ”

“Of course not! There’s a backup Portkey, it won’t take us all the way back but-- wait... you don’t have a wand?”

He cursed himself for admitting that, but he’d been so bloody angry, and, well, if he was being honest, bloody terrified, to be stuck here with the Granger girl in Merlin knows where, wandless, helpless, as bad as a Muggle, even worse because at least a Muggle would know what a parking garage was and how to drive a car and how to get to London without a magic. He forced his face into a sneer. 

“The Order’s intelligence must be worse than even we suspected, if your sources don’t know that I’ve fallen from the Dark Lord’s favor. He’s taken a fancy to my wand, you see,” he said, and realized belatedly that he must have been doing a worse job than he’d thought at hiding the bitterness and fear from his face and voice, if the pity in Granger’s wide brown eyes was anything to judge by. 

The parking garage was silent for a few moments, and then she took a hesitant step closer to him. “The backup Portkey is in a few hours, and would take you to Dublin. From there I thought Apparition would be doable, or it’d be easy to find a Floo.”

He sat, stonily silent, mind racing as he tried to think through his contacts in Ireland. 

“C’mon,” she murmured, reaching out to grasp tentatively at his hand and tug, “I still need to ask my favor, and we don’t need to sit in this parking garage for hours.” 

He let himself be led out of the labyrinth that was the parking garage, and he’d have blamed the girl for making it impossibly complex so that he couldn’t escape or return without her, but apparently this maze-like structure was where Muggles left (and subsequently found) their cars every day, so he was robbed of the satisfaction. The heat increased as they ascended through several levels, until he was cursing his heavy black robes. He could finally see daylight at the other end of the structure when Granger stopped, suddenly seeming to notice the drops of sweat rolling down his neck. 

“Oh, right. Other clothes, hold on,” she said, dropping his hand to reach into a small purse at her side (though her entire arm seemed to fit inside, he noticed), and pull out a pair of trousers and a loose linen button-up shirt, both in Muggle style. “I had to guess at the size, I’m sorry, but I know a few tailoring charms to fix them,” she said, holding out the clothes. 

His eyes dropped closed as he fought the urge to roll them. “Turn,” he ordered, taking no small satisfaction in the fact that, for once, she just obeyed, turning around to face the concrete wall demurely. He stripped unselfconciously and then pulled on the strange Muggle clothes; they fit surprisingly well, even if he felt simultaneously constrained and exposed compared to the coverage of his customary robes. He cleared his throat and she turned slightly, peeking through the fingers that she’d brought up to cover her eyes, and he fought the urge to laugh at the unexpectedly childish behavior. The thought vanished as quickly as it had come, though, because after she’d satisfied herself that he was dressed, she turned and gave him a nakedly appraising glance before her eyes quickly flitted back to the entrance, a faint blush staining her cheeks the most delightful shade of pink, and he fought to suppress the memory of her small teeth against his neck, the flash of sharp pain overpowered by pleasure. 

He shook his head to clear his thoughts and strode off towards the entrance. He heard the the quick rustle of Granger’s feet against the pavement behind him and fought the urge to turn around, though he slowed as they approached the exit, which was somewhat blocked by a lowered barrier, which seemed too easy for them to slide under or to the side of. He shot her a questioning glance, noticing with a double take that she had taken off the flannel shirt she’d been wearing and wrapped it around her waist, leaving her in denim jeans and a thin scrap of fabric that clung tightly to her chest, which he supposed passed for a shirt in the Muggle world. She noticed his hesitation and plowed forward, sliding off to the side of the barrier. 

“It’s not really meant to keep out people, they only care about the cars,” she said over her shoulder as he followed, first out of the parking garage onto a street lined with tall buildings, then down the block, around a corner, another corner, all along nearly identical looking streets lined with oppressively tall buildings in an unfamiliar myriad of architectural styles, loud with the sounds of passerby chattering and cars honking, even at this late hour, and Lucius was certain that he would be hopelessly lost, incapable of finding his way back to the bloody garage in this maze of a city. 

“Where even are we?” he snapped at her, and she slowed her pace slightly to walk at his side, giving him a small smile. “This place looks miserable.”

“Just a bit further,” she said, cutting through an alley and leading him to the end of one last block, and as soon as they cleared the buildings he stopped in his tracks. Spilling out in front of him was a wide boulevard, filled with cars and flashing lights, lined with palm trees swaying in a salty breeze that was coming off of the expanse of dark ocean spilling out ahead of him, white-capped waves rushing to the shore illuminated in the light of a full moon and the electric lights of an array of Muggle structures at the end of a pier, reaching up to the sky and flashing brightly. Endlessly in either direction stretched the coastline, illuminated by thousands of sparkling electric lights. 

He could hear the smug smile in her voice as she said, “We’re in Los Angeles,” but Merlin he would not let her ruin this for him. He blinked back the heat of unexpected tears. He’d spent a year in Azkaban, robbed of the memory of any good moment in his life, forced to relive his failures and fears endlessly, and when he’d finally been set free it had only been to emerge into one of those nightmares, his son’s life ruined, his home overrun, his wife desolate and cold, his world restricted to boundaries of his property. He’d never thought he’d see anything beautiful again -- not even the sun rising over London, much less the full moon reflecting off an endless expanse of ocean and palm trees swaying in a summer ocean breeze. To her credit, Granger let him stand in silence, breathing in the salt air, until he turned to her. 

She was giving him a strange smile, and he noticed that the way the moonlight struck her eyes could make even the usually dull and uninteresting brown become sparkling chestnut, illuminating hints of mossy green and glittering amber he was certain didn’t exist before. 

“Let’s go sit,” she said, leading him through the perilous journey of crossing the busy street, to a park that lined the other side, looking out over the ocean. She seemed to have intuited his draw to the ocean, because she led them to the far side of the park, where he could lean on a low wall before a drop to the beach on the other side. For her part, Granger clambered up to sit on it, her legs dangling over the edge, and he huffed. 

“If you fall, break your leg, and get taken to a Muggle Healer, leaving me stranded here, I will find you and strangle you with my bare hands personally.” 

She just laughed though, giving him an odd look. “I’ll be careful, I promise.” 

With that, she leaned back against her palms, head tilted up to look at the massive moon. He waited for her to begin, but she just stayed like that, smile fading and face growing thoughtful, for long moment after long moment. Just when he began to shift impatiently, wondering if she would ever speak, he heard her inhale deeply next to him, and then begin speaking.

“It surely won’t surprise you that I’m not returning to Hogwarts this year.” She didn’t wait for his response to continue. “I doubt I’d be welcome, and even if I were, there are... other things to do. I’ve been getting ready, and” - just the faintest flicker of hesitation crept into her voice, and he turned to study her intently, though she kept her eyes trained upwards - “and I believe there is a statistically significant chance that I will not survive this war.” 

He jerked slightly in shock, watching the young woman in front of him admit she believed she would die. He remembered the girl she’d been what felt like so short but so long a time ago, and what he’d predicted. 

“Don’t worry, I’ve accepted it. I’m not afraid. It’s just a fact. But,” she said, pausing to draw in another breath, “there are certain things I’ve needed to take care of, things I’ve wanted to complete, in the event that I do die. My parents, for example. I needed to make sure they were safe and happy. When I owled you, I’d just returned from moving my parents somewhere far away, and completely wiping myself from their memories.” She swallowed heavily, and Lucius felt his world narrow to the sound of her voice and the smell of salt and sand and the movement of her throat; Merlin, she was... he tried to imagine cutting himself off from Draco and Narcissa in that way to protect them. Maybe he should have. But maybe the Mudblood was braver and stronger than he’d ever been, coward, because even imagining it felt like cutting off a limb. 

“Which is just to say that the favor I wanted to ask you relates to the things I want to get accomplished in the event I die.” Finally, she turned to look at him, though her eyes were still somewhere far away. “I’ve never had sex, and I’d like to do so in case I die.” 

He sat still for a long moment, waiting for her to continue off of this tangent, before his brain caught up and he started. “Me? You want... Why in Merlin’s bloody name me?”

She gave him a tight smile that didn’t reach her eyes. “I thought you’d ask that. You were my first kiss, you remember, and... you made it a pleasant experience. I didn’t want it to be with someone else who doesn’t know what they’re doing, because I wanted it to be actually enjoyable, which my research indicates it wouldn’t likely be if I was with someone else in my... position. And, besides all that... I thought you’d understand.” Her eyes seem to actually focus on his now, and he had to look away from the intensity of her stare. “Even if I did want to pick someone my age, or someone in the Order, that would be admitting that I didn’t think I’d make it, and Merlin knows after Dumbledore’s death we need as much optimism as we can get. Harry understands, he also doesn’t think he’ll make it out, but he needs me to be supportive, focused, not dwelling on mortality. Ron... it would break him to admit that we might not make it, I think. It couldn’t be him. But you... I kept thinking back on what you said that night in the rose garden, and, I don’t know, I just thought... maybe you’d understand.” 

His heart was a dull roar in his chest, awakening as if from a long slumber at this girl baring her soul before him, and he dropped his head to hide his eyes. “I would have let them kill you in the Department of Mysteries. I told them as much, and you heard me.” 

He heard a shifting rustle beside him that he assumed was a shrug. “I’d just lured a professor to what I assumed was her death, so it seems a bit inappropriate to be pointing fingers.” 

He looked up at her in confusion, and her small smile was real this time. “Oh, did that not make it to Azkaban then? Umbridge caught us and was trying to stop us from going to Department of Mysteries, so I told her that Dumbledore was having us build a weapon that was hidden in the Forbidden Forest and we’d take her to it. I figured we had a fifty-fifty shot of running into Acromantulas or the centaur herd, either of which would work. It was centaurs - she insulted them, and, well.” She shrugged slightly. “She didn’t die, but I think she’s still in St. Mungo’s. She has a total breakdown if you even just...” She made a faint clip-clopping sound with her tongue, and Lucius blinked in confusion. Granger had really...? Ruthless. But that still didn’t...

“I have done worse things than you can imagine, Granger. I am dangerous. I am not one of your schoolboy friends. And you think it’s wise to write me, haul me halfway across the world, so that I can... what? _Make love_ to you for the first time?” he said with a half-hearted sneer.

She met his eyes with that intense gaze again. “I know that you’re not a schoolboy, or one of my friends. I don’t want them -- I want you.” And, Merlin help him if, even in the midst of everything, that didn’t shoot straight to his cock with dizzying intensity. He exhaled heavily, grip on the wall in front of him tightening as she continued, with a hint of smugness in her voice. “And I know you’ll think that this is just a nakedly transparent attempt at flattery, but it wouldn’t be a lie to say that I’ve thought about that kiss anytime I’ve done anything remotely sexual in the past three years.” 

As if sensing his weakening nerve, she played her final card. “Besides, like I said in my letter, I know that I owe you a favor already, and will owe you another. So I have something to offer.” She reached into her pocket and pulled out a nondescript carved wooden chess piece. A bishop. He frowned at it, but she smiled. “It’s a Portkey that will take you to an Order safehouse. It works anytime after tomorrow midnight, and activates if you say the name of the person whose statute you found me kissing at the Yule Ball.”

Lucius felt certain his heart had stopped, and his eyes were noticeably, transparently wide, even in the darkness. An Order of the Phoenix safehouse? His reward from the Dark Lord would be significant; he could possibly earn back his favor, maybe even enough to have his wand returned to him. On the other hand, if he didn’t give it to the Dark Lord, an escape route for Draco and Narcissa should things turn ugly, should the Dark Lord’s wrath escalate. She knew the value of what she was giving. 

“And what if I don’t remember the name?” he said flatly, lips tight, trying to school his features back into an expression that gave nothing away. _Vindictus Veridian_ , his mind supplied, the image of her kissing that stupid statute seared in his memory.

She looked at him knowingly. “Then I’ll have misjudged you. And you won’t be able to activate the Portkey.” 

He gave her a furious glare. “Why on earth would you give this to me? You must know that I could turn around and take it to the Dark Lord and hurt your precious Order. You can’t possibly trust me not to. It’s a risky move. Surely intolerably risky.”

She gave him a small shrug. “Well, I may research and study like a Ravenclaw, or plan like a Slytherin, but I am, after all, an impulsive Gryffindor. I can’t resist taking a risk on people.”

***

She knew he’d take her offer.

She knew what she was giving him was too valuable for him to say no, regardless of what she was asking. She’d thought for a while about what she could possibly offer him, both because she was afraid he’d say no and because she did understand and appreciate the risk that he was taking, especially now that she knew that he was out of Voldemort’s favor. Disappearing for two days, wandless... the chances that he’d need her Portkey as an escape, not even as a bargaining chip, weren’t insignificant. 

After Dumbledore had died, after Harry had told them about the Horcruxes, what it all meant, she’d immediately known what was coming, what they would have to do, and how dangerous it would be. She’d known then that her chances weren’t exactly great. So she’d done what she did best - she’d planned. She’d made a list of everything she’d need to take care of, in the event that she didn’t return, from her parents, to a long conversation with Ginny to make sure the younger girl would care for Crookshanks, all the way down to cancelling her Muggle library card. But there’d been one item she’d been stumped at, though she knew it was necessary. It felt somewhat silly, since she was adult in all other ways, and in more ways than most actual adults were, but... call it selfish, call it silly, call it stupid. If there was a time to be any of those things, it was right before she was about to march off to her likely death fighting an evil wizard. Once she’d decided it, she had to decide _who_. Ron and Harry weren’t right, for all of the reasons she’d told Malfoy and a few more besides. She wanted this to be as separate from the rest of her life as she could get it; she didn’t want whoever it was coming to her should she survive, expecting more, or for the dynamic between her, Ron and Harry to be thrown off-kilter even before they had to start their task. And she wanted someone older. She’d have considered one of Ron’s older brothers, maybe Charlie or one of the twins, but there was the problem that they were _Ron’s brothers_ , and that if Ron had ever found it he would have been devastated. If he’d still been alive, she’d have asked Sirius in a heartbeat, but that ship had sailed. She’d considered owling Viktor Krum, but her memories of their lackluster kisses at the Yule Ball had stopped her - and that train of thought had led her to the man currently standing in front of her. 

A man who, after long, careful consideration, finally closed his eyes and snatched the bishop out of her hand. “Fine.” 

She smiled to herself, watching him roll the piece between his fingers and slip it carefully into the pocket of his trousers. “Good, then. We can go ahead and get going, I know it’s late and I’m sure you’re also tired--” she said, swinging her legs back over the wall and starting to hop down, when she felt his hand on her arm. 

“Wait,” he said, and the look he was giving her was measured, but with a hint of something dark in his grey eyes that made her breath catch in her throat. “If I’m doing this, I should get a hint of what I’m in for. Maybe I should get to see how good of a student you are... how well you remember your lessons.” He was leaning over her now, closer but still waiting, eyes flickering between her eyes and her lips as he waited for her. 

She swallowed heavily, his innuendo and the memories of their last kiss igniting a heat that was uncoiling itself slowly within her, and she knew her voice was a little too breathy to go unnoticed when she said “I suppose that sounds reasonable”, but she didn’t think she really minded, because she reached up and smoothed a hand across his cheek, rough with stubble, feeling his heavy exhale at her gentle touch, and then she brought her lips to his, straining upward to melt into the taste of his lips against hers, at once familiar and foreign. She felt one of his hands creeping around to the back of her neck to pull her closer to him, and let her own hands drift into his hair, gasping softly as she felt his other hand at her waist, heat seeming to radiate from wherever he touched her. She drew back slightly, pressing featherlight kisses against his bottom lip even as her nails traced delicate patterns on his scalp, feeling him smile briefly against her mouth at her remembrance before she heard him _growl_ slightly as he hauled her closer to him, biting at her lip to get her to open her mouth, and then they were a tangle of desperate tongue and teeth and nails, his hand tightening on her ribcage and drifting slightly upward until the tips of his fingers were just barely brushing the underside of her breast, and _God_ , had she needed this, the ability to stop thinking for thirty seconds, to not have to worry about what he thought of her or what she’d have to do or say after this was all over, to just live inside of her body in the moment, she’d needed some outlet for the constant tension that had crept to live inside of her, and every just slightly too hard nip of her teeth or not quite gentle tug on his hair seemed to do nothing but heighten his pleasure. 

Suddenly she heard a catcall from a passerby and, remembering that they were in public, jolted back so suddenly she almost fell back over the wall, except for the long strong arm that locked around her waist, catching her. “You promised you’d be careful,” he said with a self-satisfied smirk, the effect only marred slightly by lips swollen from her rough treatment of them. “But I’ll let you off with a warning, since you clearly remembered your lessons.” 

Legs weak, she stood up and started for the road on the other side of the park. “We... we should... I have a house for us. I figured a hotel wasn’t--well, that we’d need more privacy than a hotel would afford.” She flushed at his feral grin, stammering. “Not for that! I meant because of the _magic_ ,” she hissed. 

“Are we going to an Apparition point, then?” he said, easily falling into step with her. 

“Erm, no, I’ve never been there before, just booked it through the travel agent, so we’ll need to take a cab,” she said absentmindedly, reaching out a hand as she squinted into the bright lights of the traffic bustling by.

“A cab?” 

“Ah, yes, they’re like the Knight Bus, but for Muggles. And there are loads of them. Usually they only take one group at a time.” 

“Why isn’t one here yet then?” he said, and she noticed him eyeing her waving arm.

“Because they’re not summoned by magic. Someone on duty who doesn’t already have passengers has to see us.” 

“Oh,” he said, seeming quite put out by this experience with Muggle transportation, and she shot him a look over her shoulder.

“But at least we don’t have to share the ride with other people,” she said, giving him a significant look, and his smirk was back. 

A cab pulled over and the two clambered in, Hermione showing Malfoy how to buckle his seatbelt surreptitiously and leaning forward to give the driver the address and take down the number of the cab company, and then they were on their way through the city, windows rolled down so that Hermione could lean slightly out of the window and watch the variety of the city streaming by. 

What felt like moments later, she felt someone shaking her slightly and jolted upright, hand going immediately to her purse with her wand in it. 

“Granger, we’re here.” The voice was familiar and she shook her head slightly, coming out of sleep to remember herself, where she was, _who_ she was with.

“Er, right... right,” she said, leaning forward to press the American bills into the driver’s hand before she climbed out, walking up a stone walkway and scrabbling for the keys underneath the flowerpot. 

“This seems... quaint,” Malfoy said beside her, hardly managing to hide the disdain from his tone as he took in the tidy, long and low one-story front facade of the home. Hermione rolled her eyes. 

“Yes, I’m sure the _Manor_ is much superior. But give it a chance,” she said, opening the door, “Or at least wait a few hours to complain. I’m exhausted and want to go to bed.”

She could feel Malfoy’s scowl as she led him through the interior hallways of the house to find the master bedroom, but realized she was honest to Merlin smirking as she stepped into the large room, seeing that the travel agent hadn’t been underselling this place, and slid to the side so that he could follow her and see what she saw. She held in a chuckle at the sight of Malfoy stopping in his tracks, one hand going up to steady himself against the doorframe as he looked out to see that the back wall of the bedroom was made entirely of glass panels, looking out onto a deck running the length of the home, and, further, the city sprawled beneath them from their spot in the hills, electric lights twinkling in the haze. 

“It’s passable,” he said after a few long moments, but there was a strain in his voice that reminded her of those first moments when he’d looked out at the ocean, and she reminded herself that Malfoy had been - was basically still - imprisoned, and she decided to accept passable as a compliment.

“I, uh, figured we’d share this bedroom. You can make yourself comfortable, I’ll go into the bathroom to get changed,” she said, grabbing at her bag and hurrying into the attached bathroom to put on her pajamas. As she changed, she took a few deep breaths to steady herself. He’d said yes, and they were here, and about to share a bed together. She didn’t think anything would happen _yet_ , not when they were so tired and had so much time to spare, but... She pulled on her comfortable pajama pants and a thin sleeping shirt, when the thought suddenly floated into her head that she wondered what Narcissa Malfoy wore to bed, and wished she’d thought to bring something... silkier. Shaking that thought from her head, because he was doing this in exchange for something, because she’d asked, not because he found her particularly attractive, or that she wanted him to find her particularly attractive, she stepped back out into the bedroom. 

“Oh!” Hermione started, coming out of the bathroom to find the sliding glass doors open, Malfoy standing outside on the balcony dressed in only his undergarments, leaning against the railing and looking thoughtfully down at the city sprawling out in front of them. He turned back to her, his pensive expression turning to a predatory smirk at her obvious blush.

“Problem, Granger?” She shook her head furiously, but his grin just grew as he stretched languidly, “One would think you’d never seen a man in his underclothes before.” 

“Of course - of course I’ve seen - of course I have!” she spluttered, crossing her arms furiously and keeping her gaze fixed determinedly on his face, even as she felt her own grow warmer with shame. As if the man was a bloody Legilimens, his gaze grew suddenly sharp at her stuttered denial, and he advanced towards her.

“You have, haven’t you...?” His voice was quiet and low, and Hermione shivered slightly at a breeze that picked up. She felt her nipples stiffen, and his gaze drop suddenly to where they were showing through her sleep shirt, and crossed her arms more tightly. 

He paused, looking at her in hesitation, one hand coming up to rub across his face. “Merlin, Granger... Are you sure about this, then?”

She averted her eyes from his, felt her face growing hot with shame. “Of course I’m sure about this! I’ve given you the bloody Portkey, haven’t I?” 

She knew she was inexperienced, which was why she was _here_ , and not with some other bloody boy who could give her this moment, but that didn’t mean she needed to be reminded of it at every turn. She stepped outside to close the distance between them, leaning up to loop her arms around his neck and pull him into another kiss, which was at least _something_ she was apparently good at, teeth scraping against his bottom lip with a little more force than she’d really intended, frustration spilling over. She felt him jerk slightly and, eyes opening wide, started to pull away, wondering how she could be so bloody stupid as to have already messed this up, when she felt him pull her flush against his body, meeting her lips again with as much force as she’d given. He nipped at her bottom lip sharply, and she gasped, delicious sparks beginning low in her core, zipping through her veins, even better than before because she hadn’t been anticipating the pleasure of the heat of his bare body against her, and this time one of his hands had drifted down to grip at her ass, pressing her lower belly against his erection, which felt impossibly hot and hard, separated from her skin by just a few thin layers of fabric, and his other hand had skated up her torso to palm her breast, gently massaging it in a way that set Hermione’s skin on fire. Suddenly, his fingers brushed against her nipple through the fabric of her shirt, and Hermione whined low in her throat, breaking their kiss to look down at his hand on her, her hips pressing against him of their own accord. 

“Just what have you done, Granger?” Malfoy rasped out, voice low and just slightly unsteady as he continued his ministrations. “There’s more to sex than just the act itself, you know... and I’d hate to shortchange either of us.” She could feel herself growing flushed, at the heat that lingered in the air, even at nighttime, at his hand on her breast, at the feel of his interest against her. 

“I... Um...” She flushed, trying to think of a way to admit that her experience had been limited to a few snog sessions and one clumsy groping session with Cormac McLaggen last year when she’d been jealous over Ron, which had been decidedly inferior to whatever magic Malfoy was working on her breast. “Should we... go inside?” 

“No,” he said simply, with a predatory grin. “Tell me, Granger, have you kissed other men since our kiss in the gardens?” 

The hand that had been on her arse had moved to slide inside of her pajama pants, his long fingers stroking against her, smoothly slipping lower, closer to her core, and so her answer came out in a whimper. “Yes, I... I’ve snogged a few boys.” He tweaked at her nipple slightly and she whined in the back of her throat. “Three. Other than you.” 

“Mmm,” he said, “and did you let any of these _boys_ touch your breasts?” He’d leaned down to whisper in her ear, warm breath puffing against the sensitive skin of her ear, and followed it up with the barest scrape of his teeth and a flick of his fingers against her nipple, and, _Merlin_ , if he hadn’t admitted that he didn’t have a wand she’d have accused him of using magic, because she felt like she was going to burst into flames if the heat that was building inside of her body didn’t find some outlet. When she’d asked this of Malfoy, she had no idea that it would be like this. She’d thought she’d certainly overromanticized that first kiss, mistaken natural hormonal reactions in their first flush for the intense heat he’d built in her with a kiss, so when her few snog sessions had left her content, slightly tingly, she’d not even stopped to consider that sex with Malfoy would be anything other than a slightly better extension of that. This... this spiraling, needy, desperate feeling, before he’d ever done anything that MacLaggen hadn’t done, before he’d even taken her top off, was not expected. She was struck by the sudden wonder whether it was just that Malfoy actually knew what he was doing, or if she’d ever respond to another man the way her body was singing at Lucius Malfoy’s barest touch.

“Granger?” he asked smoothly, the slightest hint of concern lacing his otherwise husky voice as he brought her back to earth with a gentle squeeze of her ass. 

“I- Yes, just one,” she murmured, remembering his question, and she felt a slight bristling - _jealousy?_ Surely not. But... “But it was... it wasn’t anything like _this_ ,” she continued. “I didn’t...” she stumbled over her words, trying to figure out how to admit the truth of the matter without embarrassing herself completely, considering whether she cared about embarrassing herself when his fingers had resumed their slow caresses, slipping steadily lower, closer to her core. Finally his hand slipped low enough to just brush against her opening through her knickers, which he must be able to feel were embarrassingly wet, absolutely sopping, and she gasped, jerking forwards as the words tumbled out of her, “No one’s ever made me feel like this,” she gasped, and she heard him grunt, his head falling against her shoulder as she felt his cock twitch against her. 

“Has anyone ever touched your cunt?” he said, voice harsh and broken against her neck, even as his hand continued stroking her there. 

“No, just me, and now you, no one else,” she whined, torn between the need to arch her back and grind her hips backward against his hand or press them forward against the heat of his cock between them. “Please,” she muttered, not even sure what she was pleading for, and he suddenly let go of her, taking a step back as he gulped in the nighttime air. 

“Much as I’d like to, I’m not going to fuck you tonight, Granger, not when we have eighteen hours of this, and you have so much to learn. Tell me what you want to do, what you want to learn,” he said, arms reaching back for the steadying support of the patio railing. 

She took the moment to steady herself as well, to drink in the night air and let the desperate urge to come recede slightly. He was giving her an option, and she didn’t want to waste it, not the chance to learn, or to experience more of him. Once she’d reined in her first instinct, which was just to demand he make her come the fastest way he knew how, she took a long look at his almost naked body, leaning against the railing, not looking away in shame as she had earlier that night. He was still too thin for his broad and powerful frame, no doubt from his time spent in Azkaban, but she could see the wiry, corded strength in his arms, his legs, the solidness of his chest and abs. When she let her eyes rest on his cock, barely covered by a layer of thin black cotton but clearly hard and straining, she felt a clench low in her gut, and for a moment her eyes fluttered closed as she imagined what it would be like to have inside of her, before her eyes snapped back open and the answer came to her. 

“I... I want to give you a bl-blow job,” she said, stumbling only slightly over the unfamiliar words, only ever read or overheard, never spoken, and she watched with intense interest as she saw his erection twitch under his underwear. 

“Are you certain you’re not trying to kill me, brat?” Malfoy groaned, eyes closed as a vein in his neck throbbed, hands gripping the railing tightly. “We should go inside, now.”

Hermione started to take a step to turn back inside but paused, admiring for a moment the silhouette of his body against the city sprawled beneath them, lights twinkling, and took a breath, trying to regain some of the control that had slipped from her under his skilled hands. “No. I... Out here is... good.” 

He raised an eyebrow, and she pushed down the residual shame that had stilled her tongue and made her stumble. Wasn’t that what the point of this was, anyway? To pick a person she didn’t have to feel shame with, who couldn’t tell anyone else about this, who she wouldn’t have to interact with after this was all over and remember that he’d maybe judged her? To be able to just let go. She took another deep breath and then met his gaze. 

“I like the night breeze. I like the way you look with the city behind you. I like thinking about how we’ll look with the city behind us, and me on my knees in front of you.” She felt certain that her face was bright pink now, trying to push down the shame of vocalizing her request so clearly, but his chest was heaving, and she noticed that there was a spot of moisture on his underwear near the tip, his cock straining and leaking. 

“Your knees will hurt on the wood, but by all means, don’t let me get in the way of a pretty picture,” he said, voice low and gravelly even as he clearly fought to keep it steady. She smiled at him, grin spreading as she took a step toward him. As if sensing her uncertainty, he took a deep breath and then focused on her. “Take your clothes off first. It’s not necessary, but I-- a man will want to feel your skin against his... and look at your tits.” 

She grinned at his slip, but acquiesced, first sliding her pajama pants down, leaving her at least somewhat covered, and then, hesitantly pulling her sleep shirt off. She slid her underwear off before she ever met his gaze, before she could lose her nerve, and then looked up at him. His hands were gripping the railing behind him so tightly that his knuckles had gone white, and she felt a surge of adrenaline and arousal at the open lust in his gaze, pupils so dilated his eyes almost looked black in the low light. 

“Now finish undressing me,” he said tightly, eyes snapping shut as she took a few steps closer and gripped the waistband of his shorts, hearing his sharp intake of breath as her hands brushed against the bare skin of his hips, and then she tugged them down to the ground, lowering herself to kneel in front of him. He kicked them to the side, but she was preoccupied with the sight of his naked cock. It looked, to her, impossibly large, only slightly longer than average but thick, flushed bright red and leaking from the tip. She licked her lips and saw it jerk slightly, chancing a glance upward to see Malfoy staring down at her with something wildly desperate in his eyes, and, keeping their eye contact, she reached up to trace the length of his cock with the barest brush of her fingers, feeling it twitch beneath her fingers and his eyes widen slightly, breath coming faster now. 

“Now what?” she said, with just the slightest hint of a smirk, and she watched the movement of his throat as he gulped, eyes screwing shut. 

“Explore it. Study it. You’re good at that, Granger. I’ll tell you what’s good and what’s not.” His voice was strained, and she grinned, feeling that same flush of power she’d felt as a fifteen year old who’d made him groan with a kiss. 

Without preamble, she leaned forward and licked at the smear of moisture that was leaking from his cock now, heat blossoming in her core at his guttural groan. “Was that good?” she asked smugly, replacing her tongue with her fingers, spreading the moisture down his length as she tried to wrap her mind around its length and girth, familiarize herself with the veins, the flare of the head. 

“Yes, and you know it, you insufferable brat,” he muttered through gritted teeth, muscles straining as he clearly tried to hold himself still, hips rocking just slightly. 

“Acceptable, exceeds expectations, or outstanding?” she said with a slight chuckle, leaning down to give his length another lick, this time from the base up to the tip, feeling a rush of heat and wetness as she imagined taking it in her mouth. 

“Outstanding. Now stop gloating and start sucking my cock before I give up on the notion of teaching you anything altogether and just fuck that pretty little mouth of yours until I come down your throat,” he growled, one hand going down to tangle in her hair and pull her closer, and Hermione gasped, eyes fluttering at the wave of arousal that shot through her at his words, at the picture they’d painted. Merlin but she _wanted_ that, wanted to see him break, wanted to know it was all because of her. Sitting back on her heels, she brought one hand to his thigh and the other wrapped around the base of his cock to steady it. She looked up to meet his heated gaze, and then, eyes never leaving his, wrapped her mouth around his length and took as much of it into her mouth as she could, moaning slightly at the weight of it in her mouth and the musky taste of him.

***

He dug his nails into the wooden railing of the patio so hard he felt certain he’d leave permanent scratches, breathing through his nose and counting backwards from 100 as the Granger girl sank her mouth more than halfway down his cock. 

Merlin but she was trying to kill him. He’d been holding off an orgasm since she’d been rutting against him, he’d felt her sopping wet knickers, and she’d admitted that no one had ever touched her like this before, and he’d needed her mouth on his cock before he embarrassingly came at the ghost of her fingers against him and a broad lick of her tongue. And, bloody hell, but the way she’d looked at him when he’d snapped at her that he’d fuck her mouth -- he’d been able to _smell_ the arousal on her, the heat in her gaze -- she wanted it, but he’d be damned if he was going to cut this time short. 

She was continuing now, bobbing up and down, and he finally contained himself enough to mutter in a strangled voice, “If you can’t take it all, use your hand. Up and down.” 

She complied immediately, her hand beginning to pump the lower half of his shaft in the same rhythm as she was moving her mouth, and he began reciting potions recipes in his head as all of the blood in his body poured straight to his cock, his entire being focused on the feel of her mouth on him. He’d almost had himself under control again, helped by her slightly too tight grip, when he noticed that she was working herself further down, taking more of him into mouth, slowly but steadily, and as she pushed just slightly further, his cock hit the back of her throat, she made a choked little moan, and he groaned, hips snapping forward to push himself further into her mouth. She made another choked sound, and he felt her throat tighten around him. Suddenly, intensely, as if putting it off had only made it all more powerful, he felt the heavy pressure at the base of his spine, felt his balls grow heavy, and he jerked her off of him by the hair, thinking hard about naming the past thirteen generations of the Malfoy family tree and imagining exactly their facial expressions if they could see him now as he fought down his orgasm.

“Fuck, Granger, I’m sorry,” he said, looking down to see her hair wild from his grip in it, her eyes wide and slightly red, watery at the corners from where she’d choked, lips shiny with saliva and pre-cum. 

“More,” she said, voice raspy and hoarse, and his eyes fluttered closed as he focused intently on his great-great-uncle Ulysses Malfoy’s five offspring, anything but her utterly debauched look and the way she was asking him for _more_ , because if he focused on that he wouldn’t be able to give her any more. “Please, more,” she said, whining this time.

“Okay, okay, yes. Fuck. Relax your throat. If it’s too much, tap my thigh, okay? I can’t-- oh, fuck,” he said, he knew he was babbling, but _Merlin’s bloody teeth_ she was licking her lips and opening her mouth again, eyes meeting his with a dazed, hungry gleam, and then he was holding her head steady, his hands wrapped in those long curls as he fucked into her mouth, watching as she focused on relaxing her throat, on taking as much of him into her as possible, eyes watering even as she strained forward to meet him, and when he saw one of her hands slip down to brush tentatively over her clit it was all too much. He felt the rhythm of his hips grow erratic, felt a twist in his gut, and he tried to pull her off of him, “fuck, Granger, I’m going to-”, but she shook her head slightly and pushed back against him, keeping his cock in her mouth as he came with a helpless groan. When she finally pulled back, some of his cum had spilled out of one side of her mouth, but she screwed her eyes shut and he watched intently at the movement of her throat as she swallowed. 

He briefly considered murdering every other man on the planet, so that no one else could have the exquisite pleasure of seeing Hermione Granger on her knees, their cum leaking out of her swollen, swotty little mouth, but chalked that up to post-orgasmic delusion. He was trying to _teach_ her, in the event that she made it out of this godforsaken war with her life. 

Once the haze of his orgasm cleared, he was left with the overwhelming need to make her come, to break her down as completely as she’d broken him. He didn’t even pause, just reached down and hauled her up to her feet, and then into his arms, one arm under her shoulders and the other under her knees as he carried her back into the bedroom and tossed her onto the bed. 

“Wh-what are we doing now?” she asked, eyes darting between him and the open door, as she scrambled back on the bed slightly. 

“Now, I’m going to demonstrate how to make you scream,” he said, voice low and guttural, as he joined her on the bed, pressing a searing kiss to her lips as his hand finally made his way down body and slipped against her cunt. Merlin but she was soaked, gasping against his mouth as he ran a finger through her folds, her body bucking slightly against him. If he hadn’t just had an earth-shattering orgasm, or if he were twenty years younger, he’d be hard again just from the sight and feel of her. Her hair still smelled like earl grey and honeysuckle, and now, just the hint of salty sea breeze, he realized as he trailed open-mouthed kisses down her neck, a scrape of teeth down her collarbone, hearing her moan beneath him, writhing as he slid one finger inside of her, and bloody fucking hell she was tight, even this wet. She was gasping for breath beneath him, whining almost constantly now, her nails scrabbling against his bare back. He leaned down to take one of her nipples in his mouth, flicking his tongue across it as he brought his thumb to rub tiny circles against her clit, and she absolutely keened, her cunt clenching around his finger as he focused singlemindedly on her pleasure. She was moaning now, words spilling out between her moans, most of them curses and absolute nonsense, but then he caught, between an “oh Merlin” and a “bloody fuck, yes”, his name, spilling from her lips, “yes, Malfoy, yes, oh, Lucius, please,” and he growled against her as he increased his speed against her clit, shifting his other hand to continue his ministrations on her breasts so he could look up at her and whisper, voice hoarse and shaky, “That’s right, Granger, come on, come for me, scream my name when you come for me Hermione.” 

That seemed to snap something inside of her, as her eyes flew open to meet his briefly before she moaned, her back arching, her cunt fluttering tight against his fingers, his name spilling from her lips -- “oh, oh, yes, Malfoy, I’m, yes, oh fuck, _Lucius_.” 

She slumped beneath him, breath unsteady as he rolled to her side, panting heavily, and drew the covers over them. He leaned over to place a gentle kiss against her damp hairline, murmuring his praises against her skin. “Outstanding, Granger.” 

She looked over at him with a slightly dazed smile, rolling onto her side to press herself against him, one arm slung over his chest. “Erm, is this... alright?” 

He looked down at her, considering, before he decided he was too tired and pleasantly flushed with orgasm to care about whether or not he should want to cuddle with the Mudblood after she’d come all over his hand. He leaned up slightly to wrap one arm around her shoulders, tugging her closer and running his hands through her curls. “Now it’s alright,” he said, sleepily, eyes beginning to flutter closed, but she’d already sunk into slumber, based on the sound of her steady breathing.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lucius and Hermione finish what they started in LA.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Valentine's Day-ish weekend! 
> 
> Thanks so much for all the reviews and comments on the last installation of this story! I really appreciate them. This story has also been brought to you by the song Dying in LA, by Panic! at the Disco, so, uh, thanks, P!atD. I actually really really liked my playlist for writing this story, which is possibly why I wrote so much *cough*. I hope y'all enjoy this latest installation in what has become the runaway one-shot!

When Hermione woke the next morning, she blinked against bright rays of sunlight streaming in unexpectedly and instinctively turned away from them, burying her face into the warm, solid body next to her. She froze momentarily when she realized what she’d done, and then felt an arm tighten around her, pulling her closer with a soft sigh, and she tensed, pulse racing, before her groggy early-morning brain caught up with her and she exhaled heavily. She was with Lucius Malfoy, in Los Angeles. Wildly, implausibly, exactly where she was supposed to be. 

As she stirred, she grimaced at the sticky reminder of last night’s activities between her thighs and carefully extricated herself from Malfoy’s grip to go take a shower and brush her teeth. Based on the angle and brightness of the sunlight, it was already late morning anyway, and, much as her body would have relished the opportunity for rest, Hermione didn’t want to spend her entire time on this continent in bed (at least, not sleeping in bed). Scrubbing her body in the shower, Hermione tilted her head back and let the hot water rush over her, eyes closed, remembering last night. It had been... unexpectedly good, better than she’d been hoping for. On the one hand, she’d half expected Malfoy’s response to her the night of the Yule Ball to be a temporary aberration, so that he would fulfill his end of the bargain now, but go no further, and certainly not take any care to make sure that she enjoyed herself or learned anything in particular. She’d also considered the possibility that he truly _was_ attracted to her, but would let his conflicting emotions about that particular quirk in his worldview spill over into their encounter, using her for his own pleasure, or being rougher than either of them preferred. But... he had surprised her with his patience, and his care. Even as she’d surprised herself with what had felt good, what she’d been willing to do, what she’d _wanted_ to do. She felt a shiver as she thought about the things she’d wantonly asked for that night, and shook herself. That was why she was doing this, after all, wasn’t it? She didn’t have to answer to anyone in her real life, try to justify herself or square her desires with what was expected of her. 

With a start she realized that the water was beginning to get cold, and she hurried out of the shower and into her clothes.

***

Stretching languidly, Lucius inhaled the deep pleasure of a good night’s sleep, the warmth of the sun’s rays across his skin and a light breeze, right before he shot bolt upright, hand reaching for the edge of the bed for a cane and a wand that weren’t there, not any longer. He hadn’t had a good night’s sleep in years, the sun in Malfoy Manor hadn’t felt warm the entire time he’d been back, and the breeze was too warm to be in Britain -- because he wasn’t. He exhaled slowly, body relaxing back in on itself as he reminded himself that he wasn’t in Britain, he was in America, with the Granger girl, and he’d probably been too exhausted to have any of his customary nightmares. Rubbing at the day-old stubble on his cheeks, he searched the room for her, tensing again when she was nowhere to be found. Given all of the events of the previous day, it seemed unlikely that she’d abandon him here like this, at least before getting what she’d come for, but he didn’t want to rule the possibility out. Pulling back on the Muggle clothes she’d given him, he rolled his hand in the pocket of the trousers, exhaling a breath of relief at finding the chess piece still inside of it, and then he crept carefully through the rest of the meandering one-story home.

He heard voices coming from the main room, and spun around the corner to see Granger, perched on the floor in front of a low coffee table, watching moving pictures on a large box against one wall and eating something from the table in front of her, and stopped. She turned her head to him and then gestured for him to join her, pointing to the couch behind her. 

“Oh, you’re finally up! C’mon, I’ve gone ahead and ordered takeout for lunch.” 

He padded cautiously over to her side of the couch, giving a wary glance at the array of food on the low table and her stance, cross-legged on the floor, in another set of Muggle clothing with even less fabric than her outfit yesterday. 

“I ordered sushi, because I wanted to try it. It’s a Japanese food that’s traditionally comprised of--”

He held up a hand to stop her before she got too far down this train of conversation, recognizing the pedantic rhythm she was falling into. “I know what sushi is. I worked with the Department of International Magical Cooperation for many years. How did you make it?” 

He poked at a few of the rolls before settling on something that seemed reasonably simple and familiar, and turned to see her looking at him with a furrowed brow.

“How did I make it? I didn’t. I ordered it.” 

It was his turn to furrow his brow, not understanding the Granger girl’s terminology, when a look of dawning comprehension crossed her face.

“From a restaurant. Muggle restaurants will deliver food. So I pick up the telephone,” she said, gesturing towards something on the wall nearby and over-enunciating each word, “dial the number of a restaurant that distributes a delivery menu,” she waved a brightly colored piece of paper in his face, “and tell them what I’d like from the menu.” She was pointing at the various menu items now, as if it was the first time he’d ever seen one. “The restaurant prepares the food and has someone drive it here in a car, and then I paid them in cash when they gave it to me.” She was smiling brightly now, as if she’d explained Arithmancy to a house elf, and he just rubbed his face with his hands. 

“How convenient,” he muttered, shoveling the surprisingly passable food into his mouth with startling haste. He hadn’t realized how hungry he’d been until he’d seen the array of delicious food that he hadn’t tasted in years sprawled in front of him. He pretended not to notice Granger smiling at him out of the corner of his eye, though she looked away whenever he turned and might have actually caught her. The rest of the meal passed with surprising civility, with Granger for once deferring to his expertise, asking him a variety of questions about first the food, most of which she had apparently only heard of, but met with an eager, practical determination and curiosity that was growing familiar to him, and then to his work with the Department of International Magical Cooperation, what he’d done, where he’d been, what he’d liked best. It was almost... easy, and he could almost forget the circumstances that had brought him here, except when his thigh would brush her shoulder and she’d flush, or she’d lean for a piece of sushi and he could see the soft swell of her breast, and he’d remember with a thrill of static electricity that they still had another night here, and that he would have her. Even watching her eat (clumsily, until he reached over and imperiously adjusted her grip on the chopsticks, resisting the incomprehensible urge to press an openmouthed kiss against her neck where he could see her pulse jump at his touch) reminded him of her eagerness the night before, and he fought to push down his ever-present pulse of low arousal at her presence. 

He was distracted by an image that flashed across the screen in front of them, showing a hollowed out building, smoke streaming from it, and stopped, arrested by the sight of the destruction. “What is that?” he asked, hoping his voice didn’t reflect the fear that had crept into his veins at the thought that it could be near, that they could have been followed, or that it could be Britain, that something could be happening to his family while he was gone, and Granger stopped suddenly to follow his gaze. She frowned slightly and grabbed a small black rectangle near her, pressing a few buttons until he could hear American voices once again, speaking quickly about a number of subjects he didn’t understand, strange words in strange accents rattling around in his brain, as the images cut away to that of a blonde woman speaking in front of a low building. 

“It’s not anywhere nearby, or at home,” she said, placing a tentative hand on his knee, light as if he were a skittish horse. “It’s just old footage, from a few years ago. There was an American bomber a few years back, and it sounds like his trial finished recently, and he was found guilty.” 

“A... bomber?” he said, letting the unfamiliar word roll off of his tongue, and thinking about the swathe of destruction he’d seen on the screen. He saw the surprised flare of the Granger girl’s eyes, and averted his gaze, jaw tightening. 

“It’s, um.... No, I’m sorry, it’s just hard for me to think of how to explain. A bomb is a Muggle... machine basically, a weapon, that can explode and cause a lot of destruction. Obviously, you’ll hear the common Latin link to _bombarda_. Muggles can create the same effect, or rather, the same effect on a range of scales, from the very small and precise to the extremely large, even larger than you saw there, using engineering and chemistry. Muggle sciences, combining certain materials in particular quantities and orders. Like Potions, sort of.” 

He nodded, and felt her relax slightly, leaning just barely into his leg, and he turned back to her to listen as she continued. “So, this man in particular had a grievance with the American government, and made a bomb to attack that building that was shown.” 

Jaw tightening, he tilted his head. “One Muggle did all that?” 

He fought the urge to avert his gaze as she stared at him, wide-eyed, with that look again as if he’d said he didn’t know where London was or what a broom was. “Malfoy... for all you profess to hate them, how much do you know about Muggles?” 

He laughed at that, though there wasn’t much amusement to it. “Ah, are we at the conversion portion of the weekend? I’d rather thought you’d at least do me the courtesy of saving it for pillow talk.” 

She leaned away from his thigh, face flushing as she shot him a fierce glare. “I wasn’t trying to-- I was just _curious_.”

“Besides,” he sneered, “I don’t _hate_ Muggles, any more than I hate, say... rodents. They’re lesser-than, beneath my notice. Their lives are nasty, short, a constant struggle without magic, always fighting amongst themselves.” He watched her hands tighten into fists and remembered with a slight pang that the Granger girl’s parents, currently gallivanting far away safe with no memory of her because she cared for them, were Muggles, but he remembered her pedantic tone and her infuriating questions, the cold shame of not knowing, and simply exhaled sharply. For her part, she seemed to be breathing through something, and then turned to him, a half-smile on her face that made her look eerily Slytherin. 

“Come with me into the city. I need to do some shopping, and I’d planned on having dinner in the city too. Get a close up look at the _nasty_ lives of Muggles.”

He snorted, reclining back against the couch. “I have no interest in seeing that.” 

To his surprise, the girl just shrugged, seeming to capitulate easily, and he furrowed his brow at her acquiescence. “Suit yourself,” she said, turning her back to him to plant her hands on the floor and push herself to a standing position in a slow, languid stretch that revealed the length of her strong, young legs and just how short her Muggle attire really was. Even in the midst of his frustration with her, he allowed himself a long, lingering look at her body, caught only slightly off-guard when she turned around to meet his gaze unexpectedly. Instead of anger, though, as he’d expected, she was grinning, slightly flushed with triumph, and he laughed again, this time with real warmth, as he reached forward to grasp her waist and pull her back down to rest on his lap, allowing his teeth to graze the shell of her ear as he rasped, “Manipulative, brat.” 

She arched back against him, her hands reaching up to tangle in his hair as she turned to meet his gaze. “There’s a saying... you catch more flies with honey than vinegar.” 

“Are you insinuating that I’m a fly?” he asked archly, his mouth pausing halfway back to her exposed neck, and she laughed at that. 

“Just come with me. I’ve never been to this city before, and, besides, anything should be better than staying locked up in this house all day, right?” Even as the words came out of her mouth, she stiffened slightly, as she realized what she’d said, what she’d reminded him of. “Oh, shit. Merlin, Malfoy, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it that way.” 

He shook his head slightly, watching the guilt flash across her face. “It’s fine, Granger. You’re right. I might as well join you.” The relieved smile she gave him seemed real, and he felt his heart give an odd thump at that. “Oh, and Granger... I thought it was Lucius last night?” he said with an arched eyebrow, delighting in her flush. 

“Very well, _Lucius_... though I thought it was Hermione now as well.” 

“No, sorry Granger, must’ve been mistaken,” he said lightly, smirking as she huffed at him furiously and muttered something about calling a cab.

***

In the midst of Los Angeles, under an almost surreally bright, cloudless blue sky, warmed by the sun’s constant rays, Hermione felt like her entire life back in London must be some kind of dream, because it seemed so impossible that, in the same universe, in the same world, people could be going about their days like this, laughing, giggling in rollerblades and swimsuits and buying stupidly expensive clothes from snobby store clerks, at the same time as war was unfurling across Wizarding Britain. She watched Malfoy, waiting for her outside of the store, hands shoved in his trouser pockets as he watched Muggles in sports cars with no roofs drive down the boulevard, music blaring, and others twirl by, arms full of shopping bags. He looked mildly uncomfortable, but he’d come along and for the most part he’d humored her, without (much) grumbling. Watching him glare at a couple of teenaged Muggle girls who were shooting him moony glances from outside of another store, she laughed behind her hand and decided to rescue him at last, giving up looking at some jewelry she’d been deciding whether to buy on a whim and pushing her way out of the store.

She didn’t bother hiding her grin at the double take he did when she emerged from the store. 

“That’s not what you were wearing before,” he said gruffly, frowning down at her dress. 

“No,” she said amiably, fighting back a chuckle at the frustrated flare of his nostrils. “I told you, I made dinner reservations, I figured I should wear something nice to dinner, and I decided to use some of the proceeds of the sale of my parents’ home frivolously.” She spun slightly, smoothing down the silky, crimson material of the short slip dress she’d bought. 

“It looks like a nightgown,” Malfoy said, and she rolled her eyes.

“Maybe I’ll wear it to bed tonight, then.” As soon as she said it, she flushed, realizing the innuendo, especially considering who’d be joining her in that bed tonight, and what they’d be _doing_ in that bed. The reminder hadn’t been lost on Malfoy, either, from the way his gaze suddenly darkened and lingered on the spots where the dress clung to her body. 

“Maybe you should,” he said, his voice rough, and Hermione felt a dizzy, swooping sensation centered in her core, felt her breath come a little faster, her pulse speeding up in both nervousness and anticipation. It had been like this all day, the memory of what tonight would bring coming back to her in flashes, of nervousness, and of heat, when she remembered how he’d made her feel the night before, when she admired the stretch of his body in his Muggle clothes, the breadth of his shoulders, the coiled strength in his biceps. She swayed closer to him, licked her lips and watched the way his eyes followed the path of her tongue. 

They were interrupted by the jostling crush of a stream of teenagers exiting a nearby store, and Hermione blinked, straightening up. “C’mon, we should catch a cab and get to the restaurant before we’re late.” 

The restaurant was a uniquely American, or maybe LA, mix of glamour and casualness, coolness as a virtue, and Hermione glanced around, curious but with the slightest hint of trepidation, as the maitre d’ took them to their table, in a large, high-ceilinged room with a skylight and towering plants all around. “Ms. Bennett,” the man said, pulling out a chair for her, which she gracefully sank into. 

“Bennett?” Malfoy asked as the man walked away, one brow cocked. 

“Ah. Don’t read much Austen, I suppose?” Hermione said with a laughing half-smile, enjoying the way his brow furrowed slightly, the left just a bit more than the right, when he was puzzling through something.

“No, though the name sounds familiar. An author? I believe it was rumored she was a witch.” 

At that Hermione’s eyes rose sharply. “Really? I hadn’t known that. Jane Austen is a famous author. She wrote frankly and revealingly about the inner lives of women, and in a way that provided a social critique of the landed gentry of Britain, at a fairly conservative time in history.” 

Malfoy sniffed, glancing over and waiting for the busboy to leave after pouring them water. “Maybe she wrote for a Muggle audience to bring them insights from the more advanced Wizarding society.” 

Hermione snorted, covering her mouth to try to avoid drawing the attention of the other tables near them. “Or maybe she thought she’d find the Muggle world more amenable to her ideas. After all, correct me if I’m wrong, but most wealthy pureblood marriages are _still_ largely arranged and managed by families.” 

Malfoy paused, seeming to consider his answer as he watched her face carefully. “Yes. Does that bother you?” 

Hermione pressed her lips together, furious at his calm, dry manner. “Of course it does! That’s a system for maintaining wealth in the hands of a small number of families and denying people, especially young women, agency in their futures.” 

“You seem very vested in this, Granger. Have a personal interest?” Malfoy shot back with a smirk, and Hermione clenched her fists under the table. 

“Why must you insist on being infuriating?” she said plaintively, shooting him a glare. 

His smirk deepened. “Because you look delightful when you get flustered.” 

She felt herself flushing even further at his pointed stare. “So your thoughts on planned marriages...?” she stammered slightly, already feeling herself beginning to melt under his intense gaze, and with a whole dinner to get through.

“Fairly indifferent. You’re likely right, and I don’t much mind who Draco winds up marrying. At this point, he could marry a bloody churchmouse so long as we’re both alive to see his wedding day.” Hermione felt her brow furrowing in concern as she watched a dark cloud float across Malfoy’s features at the sudden reminder of their real lives, the chaos swirling around them both in Britain, and she instinctively reached across the table to put her hand on top of his, ignoring his slight jerk. 

She was saved from his curious stare by the arrival of a waiter with a wine list, which Malfoy promptly glanced over and and ordered from authoritatively. Hermione frowned, but refrained from arguing in front of the waiter, who was already eyeing their hands with a little too much curiosity. 

“Of course, sir. Could I see some identification from you and the, er, lady?” the waiter said smoothly, looking between the both of them, and Hermione blanched, shaking her head slightly at Malfoy when the waiter wasn’t looking. She had her passport, of course, but she had hoped to avoid using their real names at all, even for something as simple as wine, and she didn’t dare to hope that Malfoy actually had any sort of passable Muggle identification. 

“Surely that’s not necessary,” Malfoy rejoined with a disarmingly charismatic grin and tilt of his head that left Hermione blinking. 

“It’s, um, well it is policy, sir,” the waiter said, more hesitantly now, chancing a glance over at Hermione, who quickly pretended to be engrossed in her cuticles. 

“But not necessary in this instance.” Malfoy suddenly sounded like the Malfoy she’d met in her second year, imperious, self-assured, giving the waiter a dismissive stare that somehow managed to give the impression of looking down on the boy, despite the fact that Malfoy was seated and the waiter standing, and finally he acquiesced with a murmured “of course”, nodding and scurrying off to procure the wine they’d ordered. 

Hermione laughed slightly. “Teach me how to do _that_ ,” she said, leaning forward in her seat and grinning at Malfoy. “I always assumed you got your way from doing that because you were a Malfoy, so people were deferring to either your money, your power, or an implied threat, but that Muggle knows nothing about you.”

Malfoy met her eyes with another broad smirk. “It’s about confidence, Granger. Being a Malfoy, and, of course, naturally superior, helps, but isn’t necessary.” 

She bit back a retort when she noticed a flash of mischief in his eyes, and instead rolled her eyes slightly, unable to entirely hide her smile. The waiter returned with the bottle of wine, a rich red, and the rest of the meal passed in a manner Hermione could only describe as surprisingly companionable. They both, instinctively, steered clear of the sensitive topics of politics and the reality of Britain at the moment, and, with that off the table, and the help of some of the wine, Hermione realized that conversation with Malfoy was shockingly easy. They talked about travel, where he’d gone, where she’d visited with her parents, where they’d both like to go, about her studies, the subjects she found interesting, the few she found useless. He shared her disdain for Divination, and she was shocked to learn that his favorite subject had been Astronomy, though he’d been an above average student in it at best. She was halfway through explaining black holes at length, together with other Muggle insights into space, to his rapt attention when their food arrived, together with a second bottle of wine that she had barely registered Malfoy ordering. Whether it was the food (rich, Italian, sensuous and sinfully good) or the second bottle of wine, from that point on, the conversation didn’t change in substance, though it continued meandering through different topics, but suddenly everything felt supercharged, as if they had both remembered that they were hurtling through the evening towards an inevitable, planned encounter. Suddenly, every movement of Hermione’s legs seemed to bring them in contact with Malfoy’s, each brush sending a jolt through her body, and she was acutely aware of every motion of his body, every play of muscle in his forearms, every glance he sent her way, and she felt with a certainty she couldn’t explain that he was experiencing the same thing, could feel his eyes lingering on the curve of her breast, the arch of her neck, the swell of her lips as she bit them. 

Finally, the waiter cleared their food away, and Hermione chanced a glance up to meet Malfoy’s eyes, which were fixed on her, intense and dark. 

“Should we, um, get dessert, maybe?” she said hesitantly, though the idea of sitting through another course across from Malfoy, only barely brushing him, letting this tension build for any longer, seemed insanity. 

“No,” he said, voice rough and low. “We should go home now.”

***

He knew he should be taking it slow, have some sort of grand seduction plan, it was the girl’s first time, after all, but they’d barely made it into the Muggle cab and she’d been reclining against the window, legs askew, in that ridiculously sexual nightgown of a tiny Muggle dress, looking at him with fire in her eyes, bathed in the flashing light of the streetlights and neon signs they drove past, and he’d been reaching over to slide one hand onto her bare lower thigh like he was a teenager. But the way she looked at him, eyes already heavy, lips parted as she slid closer to him, was enough to make him forget any shame, any sense of propriety or worry, forget everything but keeping her looking like that, like she was going to devour him, or beg to be devoured, he didn’t much care which. His hand crept higher on her thigh, fingers creeping around to stroke gently at her inner thighs, and he could see her biting back a whine as she spread her legs further. He finally brushed against the fabric of her underwear, his eyes dropping closed on a heavy exhale as he realized she was already wet, and suddenly she was shifting her position, leaning away from the window and towards him to catch his lips in a kiss, desperate and hungry, open-mouthed. He met her kiss with equal fierceness, ignoring the ache of his cock as he focused on continuing a slow, burning path of patterns on her upper thighs and, occasionally, against her core, fingers slipping up to rub just slightly around her clit, and on swallowing the small noises she was making into his mouth, tiny gasps and whines despite her best efforts to be quiet, even as she was spreading her legs further and grinding against his hand.

Suddenly the cab driver was clearing his throat and Lucius jumped to realize that they were already in front of their little house. 

“Th-thanks,” Granger murmured, handing the cab driver what seemed like the fare plus a rather large tip before pulling out the keys with a fumbling hand and letting them into the entryway. 

They’d barely crossed the threshold before Lucius had her pressed up against the wall, teeth grazing down the thin column of her neck as he shoved one leg between hers and lowered his hands to her breasts. Free from the presence of the cab driver, she didn’t hold back her moans any longer as she arched into his hands and mouth, twisting to grind herself against his thigh, hands tangling in his hair. Lucius groaned into her mouth as her hands tugged at his hair, his own hands roaming her body hungrily, her thighs, the curve of her hip, a breast, her neck, her messy curls, when he was distracted by the feel of her small hands insistent at his trousers, and then, button undone, slipping inside to wrap around his cock. He let his head fall forward with a groan, forehead pressing against the smooth heat of her shoulder, and then she leaned down to press a hot kiss against the side of his neck, all soft lips and soothing tongue and and then the sharp bite of her small teeth and--Merlin, she could make him forget himself in the feel of her body, this constant give and take between them, her reckless, inexperienced _hunger_ something he could drown in--he felt the pulse of arousal running through his entire body, his hands flexing against her as he tried to focus on the task ahead of them. 

“Bed, Granger,” he growled against her, hoisting her into his arms as her legs wrapped around his waist. Moments later, but not soon enough when she was pressing open-mouthed kisses to his jaw, as if she couldn’t drag herself away, they were in the bedroom, the city spilling out in the last rays of the sun’s light behind them. He laid her down on the bed, gently disentangling her legs from him before he leaned back and pulled the rest of his clothes off of him, burning with the need to feel her bare skin against his. She appeared to have a similar thought, as she was now struggling out of the tiny scrap of fabric she’d called a dress, followed quickly by her underclothes, which fell together in a heap in the corner of the room, any pretense of seduction or tease gone, replaced by a single-minded need, and then she was laying back against the covers, naked under his gaze. He paused for a moment to just look at her--gods, but she was actually beautiful, even with the scar across her body from Dolohov’s curse, her skin sun-kissed and lightly freckled, hair wild, lidded eyes meeting his gaze with a feral need, like a demanding goddess or a wild thing, and he exhaled heavily, feeling his mind begin to tunnel in on her, on the feel of her, on the ache of his cock as it shuddered in anticipation of sinking into her lush body. As he leaned forward, he saw her glance dart to his left forearm, to the inky black stain on it, and he clenched his jaw, pausing. 

“Does it bother you?” he asked, reaching out with one hand for his discarded shirt, but she’d leaned up to stop the motion of his hand. 

“No. It’s you. I know who you are,” she said softly, simply, and then met his lips in another heated kiss, demanding but softer, and he closed his eyes against the sensations racing through him, his body, his chest, the ache in his heart. 

He left the honey of her lips to trail kisses down her chest, lingering for several long moments on the temptation of her breasts, enjoying the way she writhed underneath him, hands tangling in his hair and nails scraping along his scalp, before he pressed a series of chaste kisses along the line left behind by Dolohov, down her torso. 

“Malfoy, please,” she gasped, arching her body to try to press her hips up to him. 

“Soon, soon,” he murmured against her skin. “I’m going to make you come, and then I’m going to take you, I’m going to finally fucking have you. Okay?”

“No, no, I’m ready _now_ , please,” she whined, bossy and impatient as ever, and he chuckled as his kisses trailed lower. 

“Trust me,” he said, looking up to meet her skeptical gaze as he lowered his head and, draping one of her legs over each shoulder, licked a slow, lazy circle around her clit. Granger arched above him, breath leaving her in a low whining keen, and Lucius had to close his eyes and slowly count backwards to keep himself from rearing up and sinking himself into her right then and there. Merlin but she was hot, musky and sweet on his tongue as he licked at the length of her, and he couldn’t remember ever having enjoyed this experience quite so much, every taste of her making his blood sing, until he was focused singlemindedly on bringing her pleasure, on the little mewls she was making as she writhed above him, the sting of her nails digging into his arm just enough to sharpen his mind, pain dancing along the edge of his pleasure as he moved the other hand to slide a finger deep inside of her. Her moan was low, with a broken, desperate quality, and she was so tight that the thought of fucking her, of being inside of her, makes him dizzy. Her thighs trembled against him now, and she seemed past words, just desperate whines and gasps, murmured curses, and when he slid a second finger inside of her, focusing his attention on quick flicks of the tip of his tongue against her clit, he _felt_ the split-second pause, the tension of her body right before she came around him with a desperate moan, and he let her ride out her orgasm with gentle, soothing laps of his tongue against her cunt, trying to ignore the needy, spiraling feeling already pooling in the base of his spine, the urge to seat himself in her to the hilt and _take_ his pleasure from her. 

When she was boneless beneath him, he leaned back, rearranging her beneath him and pressing the head of his swollen, leaking cock against her. She stirred, moaning, and looked up to meet his gaze, her pupils so dilated that he could barely see the doe-brown of her irises.

“Ready?” His voice was guttural and raw, and he could feel the sweat beading on his hairline, his limbs trembling with the self-control to hold himself back, just at her entrance, but then she was nodding, gasping out a “yes, now, please Lucius,” and he slid inside of her as slowly as he could bear, pushing through the momentary resistance and dropping to his elbows to trail soft kisses along her hairline and whisper nonsensical praise to her, what a good girl she was, how well she was doing, his Hermione, how sweet and tight she was, as she whined slightly, stretching to accommodate him, until he was all the way inside of her. 

He paused, eyes dropping closed as he tried to rein in his pounding pulse, the heat and pressure that bloomed from the base of his spine, the ache of his cock, regain some sort of control over himself, but she was whining now, writhing underneath him and fluttering her already tight walls around his cock. 

“H-hold on, Granger,” he muttered with a groan, feeling a fresh wave of sweat break out on his forehead. 

“Lucius, please, move, I want you to move,” she whined, snapping her hips up against him, and a dizzy shudder wracked its way down his spine. 

“F-fuck, Granger,” he said, flexing his hips against her slightly, one experimental thrust before he paused again, grunting as he tried to gather himself against the sweet, tight drag of her clenched around him. 

“Lucius,” she gasped over several syllables, like a chant, like a prayer, wrapping her legs around his waist to buck against him, digging her nails into his back, and he swore. 

“Fuck, Hermione, I haven’t-- since before Azkaban, so give me a bloody minute,” he hissed between clenched teeth.

***

Hermione paused, drawing back to look at the man above her, hands tightening in his hair when he tried to avert his gaze. When his eyes still darted away from hers, she leaned up to nip at his lower lip, enjoying his gasp when he obediently met her eyes again.

“Let go, please, Lucius, you can let go. I w- I _need_ it,” she said, pressing her forehead against his, and watched as his eyes fluttered closed before he nodded slightly. 

She barely had time to process his acquiescence before he suited action to words, pulling back and slamming into her so hard she was seeing stars, setting a pace that left her barely able to think, barely able to breathe, only to focus on the pleasant burn of his cock stretching her, the feverish heat that was already beginning to simmer under her skin again. When she could, she leaned up, pressing hot open mouthed kisses along the curve where his neck met his shoulder, tightening her legs around him, until they shifted just slightly and he sank into her deeper than before. With a shocked gasp, she sank her teeth into his shoulder, feeling her body tighten around him instinctively. At that he groaned above her, leaning back to rearrange them slightly, his arms sliding to hook around the bend of her knees, and when he pressed back into her she arched, breathless, as he slid deeper into her at this angle, so deep she felt certain he was hitting her cervix. The pace he set was utter insanity, his eyes loose and unfocused with pleasure, pupils blown and hazy in the darkness, and it was all she could do to keep up with the shivers and moans he was provoking in her. She heard him grunt, and then one hand lower to slip against her clit, rubbing fast, frantic circles as he whined, voice guttural, that she needed to “come, now, Granger, Hermione, come for me,” and she was falling, eyes rolling back in her head as the heat exploded in her veins, hearing his groan as he fucked her through it, thrusts desperate and arrhythmic before he came with a broken moan that sounded suspiciously like her name. She could _feel_ it, could feel the warm rush of him filling her, and gave another little shudder at the feeling. 

He slid out of her and she whined at the loss, but her eyelids were already drooping, even as he pulled her close and wrapped his body around hers, and she felt the sudden chill of a freshening charm. She turned to meet his sleepy gaze, and he was chuckling. “Not completely useless without a wand,” he said with a smirk, and she rolled back, scooting to press herself more tightly against him. 

“Not... never useless,” she murmured, barely hearing his sharp intake of breath before she was lost to sleep. 

She awoke when it was still dark out, and found she couldn’t fall back asleep, mind suddenly sharp and focused on the countdown to the Portkey sitting in her bag, even as she watched the Muggle cars inch along the roads beneath her at this late hour. She slid out of Lucius’ grasp and, dragging one of the blankets along with her, opened the balcony doors and padded outside, sinking to the ground to lean her head against one the railing posts as she watched the sea of restless humanity beneath her. 

She’d only been outside for a few minutes when she heard Lucius’ soft footsteps behind her, and, then, felt him lower himself to the ground next to her. 

“Couldn’t sleep?” he said, his voice still husky, and she shook her head. 

“Didn’t want to.” He nodded, not pressing her, and didn’t seem to mind when a few moments later she shifted so that she was leaning into his side, head resting on his shoulder, instead of the fence in front of her. 

“Do you ever think about not going back?” she asked suddenly, her voice breathless and high as she gave voice to the hesitation, the secret creeping doubt in her heart. 

He turned to look at her but she refused to meet his gaze, staring out at the city instead, feeling her pulse thumping wildly at her throat. 

“I wouldn’t tell anyone if you didn’t,” he said, voice level, not accusatory, no judgment lacing his tone. “And I wouldn’t blame you. But you will. You’re too good not to,” he said, and there was a hint of sadness there, even though she knew he was trying to sound mocking. 

“So are you,” she said, impulsively, and he snorted in disbelief, but she pressed on. “No, you are. You could, you know, no one would ever find you, and you’d get a wand eventually, find an American wizard, come up with a story. But you wouldn’t leave your family behind, so you didn’t even consider it. That’s... good.” 

She heard him swallow heavily next to her and let the silence settle between them for another long set of moments. “I will,” she said, softly, feeling him turn to look at her, and she pressed herself closer to him. “You’re right, I know I will, but... Jesus fucking Christ, I’m scared, Lucius,” she said, suddenly turning to meet his gaze, which was calm and serious, brow furrowed as he leaned over to pull her closer into him, pressing his lips softly to her forehead. 

“Of course you are, but you’ll be alright, you insufferable brat, you always are. You’re too bloody smart and good at magic,” he said, but his voice was thick with emotion and she swallowed to try to fight back tears that, nevertheless, spilled out of her, running silently down her cheeks. He leaned down to wipe at her tears, long fingers brushing them away gently but then she was turning and pressing up to meet his lips with her own, and though he seemed surprised at first he didn’t pull away, met her kisses with a slow, deep worship that was automatic now, until she turned to clamber onto his lap and was straddling him, her hands tangling in his hair as she continued kissing him, feeling the heat beginning to build in her again, especially when she felt him stirring beneath her. 

They laid back onto the deck, Lucius’ long arms grabbing at the blanket and spreading it beneath the two of them as they continued, bodies intertwined, hands reaching to explore each others’ bodies with slow, almost hesitant caresses, gentle for the first time all weekend. 

“You don’t have to... I’m not fragile,” Hermione said after he brushed a strand of hair out of her face with a caress of her cheek, feeling herself flush. She hadn’t planned to cry in front of him.

He looked at her curiously, something guarded in his face. “I know you’re not fragile.” 

“You don’t have to be so... gentle. Like I’m delicate.” 

His gaze sharpened, and she was taken aback by the intensity in his gaze then. “Fragile things aren’t the only things we touch gently, delicately. It’s the same with,” he paused, seeming to think about his answer even as he pressed kisses down her throat, “with things that are dangerous, or things that are precious to us.” 

“And which am I?” she asked, but he just gave her an odd look that seemed almost sad before he leaned down to take her nipple in his mouth, alternately laving it with soft licks and scraping his teeth against it, sending streamers of need racing through her body until Hermione was gasping, arching underneath him, reaching down to take him in her hand and stroke him. “Please?” she gasped against his lips, and he paused, nodding, even as she watched his Adam’s apple bob with a gulp. 

“But not like this,” he said, and she frowned for just a moment before he rolled them over so that she was on top of him, legs straddling his waist, his cock a searing line of heat against her core, and she gasped, rocking her hips over him. He lifted her, hands coming to her waist as she lined him up beneath her and sank down, slowly, eyes fluttering closed as he filled her again, the pleasant burn as she stretched around him, the dizzying feeling of being full. When she opened her eyes, he was watching her with a smoldering, lidded gaze, and she rocked her hips experimentally, gasping around a grin at the sensation and at Lucius’ response, a muttered curse and a buck of his hips. She felt another rush of heat as he lowered his hands to her waist and began to move her hips gently, a slow, rolling motion that had her seeing stars, as the heat in her built again. This time, though, it wasn’t so much a wildfire as it was a slow, spreading burn, every moment seeming to bring it building higher and higher until she wasn’t sure there had ever been a moment when she hadn’t been above Lucius Malfoy, his hands on her, building them both up to climax. 

One of his hands drifted down from her hip to splay itself over her core, thumb coming to rub soft circles around her clit that had her moaning. “How we should’ve done it the first time,” he muttered, his hips bucking up to meet her rhythm now, setting the heat boiling under her skin up a few notches. “How you deserved it the first time... slow, patient, good.” 

She shook her head, leaning back slightly to look at him and groaning as he struck a spot deep within her at the change in angle. His eyes flew open with a shocked wheeze, and his pace on her clit sped up as he seemed to focus on hitting that spot over and over again, and she was momentarily breathless before she fought back to herself. “No... that was perfect, this is perfect, everything is... god, Lucius,” she said, gasping as his pace sped up yet again, hips now driving up into her, his eyes torn between her bouncing breasts, the sight of him sinking into her over and over again, and her heated gaze, fixed on him now, “everything is perfect, you’re perfect, oh, Lucius,” and she felt her orgasm wash over her with the force of a tidal wave, felt his body go rigid beneath her and heard her name on his sharp exhale, leaned down to cling to him as she rode out her climax with a whine. 

They laid like that on the blanket, intertwined, occasionally turning and meeting each other for a tangled kiss, or for him to lower his head to her breasts, hands brushing between each others’ legs, just slow, languorous pleasure, for what felt like hours, until the sun’s morning rays were beginning to filter through the haze of the city, and Hermione sat up with a groan. 

“We need to get ready for the Portkey,” she said in a voice laced with regret. The expression on his face was guarded as he nodded, and Hermione frowned, feeling a cold lump in her throat, as if she was leaving behind something more delicate than just a weekend, her virginity, and an American city. They got dressed in silence, and Hermione couldn’t shake the feeling of dread that had come over her, no matter what she did, even as morning sunlight filtered more brightly into the home. 

Finally, they were standing on the balcony, fittingly, watching as Hermione dropped an old boot and a rusted bucket onto the ground between them. 

“Just a few minutes, now,” she said, watching him, standing there in his robes again, face impassive. “Yours will go back to the field we came from, and mine goes, erm, somewhere else.” She bit at her lip, fighting the urge to scream at him to do something, anything, other than look at her with that mask down, now that she’d seen it pulled back, to know that it hadn’t all been an act. 

She leaned down to grab the boot, watching as his hand closed around the handle of the bucket, and checked her watch. Not long now, and the tension seemed to grow with every moment. 

Finally, it burst out of her. “Don’t die, Lucius,” she said, plaintively, looking up to see surprise flashing in his eyes, and then to see him give her a small smile, a real smile, but one with a hint of sadness, and she felt a tightening in her chest. “Don’t you dare die, Lucius Malfoy, or I swear to Merlin I will--” She made a small noise in the back of her throat as she felt the low, hook sensation in her navel of the Portkey activating, and met his gaze. 

“Don’t die, Hermione Granger,” she heard him say softly, and then she was hurtling through time and space, fighting back tears.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Epistolary Charms-verse Lucius and Hermione are perfect for each other, but, ngl, I would die for for this 'verse Lucius and Hermione.


End file.
